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Sunday, October 28, 2007

I am very lucky to have Michael. You see, I am not particularly maternal. I love Michael so much it hurts, and I am very fond of most of my friends' children, but I do not feel this way about all children. I don't have Steve's natural patience, and I cannot stand bratty kids.

I have three friends with bratty kids. I can say this without fear, because 1) they do not read my blog, and 2) even if they did read this, they would have no idea I am talking about their sons. (Why is it always the sons?) They believe their children are little angels who are just a bit more energetic than other people. Steve could probably watch them for an hour or so and suggest that they talk to their doctors about some sort of hyperactivity disorder, but I am not nearly this generous.

For this reason, I am hesitant to say that my son is a well-behaved kid. I know that all moms think their kids are perfect. My secret fear is that everyone I know thinks Michael is a little terror and is just refusing to tell me. I worry about this because I do the same thing with my friends. "Ha! Ha!" I will say. It always comes out exactly like that, because the nervous laughter is all I can muster as I watch the other child destroy the living room. My friend, on the other hand, always smiles indulgently and makes a remark about how cute her son is.

I can't handle this. My heart starts to pound and I have trouble catching my breath. A few times, I've come close to tears. I cannot address Bratty Child directly, because I will start to yell or maybe even spank him. Hitting children is illegal, so this is definitely not a good plan. I cope by cracking down on Michael. Yes, this is unfair and I hate myself for it. When the bed breaks because Bratty Child has been jumping on it after being told to stop, Michael goes down on accessory charges and is forced to represent himself. He goes in time out, while Bratty Child has a much better lawyer and gets off with probation, meaning he is free to jump as much as he wants while his mother tries to reason with him.

When we leave my friend's house, I hold Michael tight, cry a bit, and tell him I love him.

7
comments:

That's interesting. None of my friends with kids think that they're angels. If anything, we all seem to err on the side of caution. For instance, we had friends over last night that kept apologizing for their son running around and "being a terror". Said son honestly wasn't. He had what I see as the usual abundance of energy for a toddler. By the same token, when the Bug is fussy, I'm apologizing and trying to excuse the two of us from the scene. Nobody else seems to see that he's acting up.

What point am I trying to make? Oh, yeah: you don't sound like some nut with a kid that's destroying anything and everything while you smile on because he's perfect. I'm sure Michael has his bad days, as do we all. Maybe you're just blessed with an exceptionally even-tempered kid.

The only reason I know you're not talking about my boys is you know I would slay them if they ever behaved that way at your house (no, I wouldn't actually kill them, but you know what I mean.) They're by no means perfect, though.

Have you read Christie Mellor's "3 Martini Playdate" books? They are just what you'll need after a visit from friends who constantly ask their children's permission to do anything..."May mummy go to the washroom now? Mummy needs to go, mummy will be right back, please??" Yargg. Read and enjoy, lend it to your friends, who will no doubt not see themselves in it, but it's worth a try (ed.'s note: more run-on sentences...)

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